


What Could've Been, What Should've Been

by Shirokokuro



Series: If That Happens, I'll Catch You [3]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Also Tim's calculator meets a brutal end, Angst, Bruce "What is Awkwardness" Wayne, Bruce and Tim meeting but also not realizing how different life couldve been for the both of them, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Gen, Jason Todd is Robin, Jason never died, Tim is awkward and trying his best, Tim never became Robin, but he still figured out Bruce was Batman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 10:46:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18737476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shirokokuro/pseuds/Shirokokuro
Summary: Getting something back often means losing something else.





	What Could've Been, What Should've Been

Gotham in April is prettier than one would think. Bits of rain are puddled in parts of the sidewalk, sure, but the air is crisp, the temperature is nice, and the sky between the buildings is a sea of post-storm clouds. It's nice to be out in this kind of weather. The trees lining the entrance to Gotham City High seem to agree; the leaf rustle in the wind is all Bruce can hear as he waits outside the school.

Jason isn't expecting him, but Bruce managed to work himself out from underneath enough Wayne Enterprises documents to leave early. A few other parents must've had the same idea. Multiple are cordoning the outside, none of them taking much notice of the fact Bruce Wayne is in their midst: The woman across seems too engrossed in her beachy romance novel to care, and a different man is shrugging at the weight of someone's soccer gear (His kid probably forgot it at home.), completely indifferent. This is one of the few places where all of them are on the same playing field, anyway: They're all parents. Bruce likes that.

The shrill of a bell pierces the silence, and it's as if Moses has parted the pedagogic sea with the way students flood out. Some make their way to the fieldhouse while others mosey about aimlessly, chatting with friends or reading the signs plastered up on the walls.

The parents, on the other hand, have little time for pleasantries. They're already reconnoitering the area with military intelligence. The more jaded of them restart their car engines from the roadside with the attitude of get-away drivers. Honks elicit eyerolls from many of the students, but quickly, good-byes are said, doors slam closed, and tires crinkle against concrete.

It's all a well-oiled machine.

The procedure of it makes Bruce feel more out of place now. (He's not  _that_  acquainted with how these things work.) The man cranes his neck in vain effort to see over the swarm. Jason should be easy to spot: The teen's shot up like a beansprout the past two years, making him almost as tall as Bruce is. And yet, the latter can't find the black hair and blue eyes he wants.

Bruce takes a well-meaning step forward, as if the motion will help Jason appear quicker. It doesn't, but what does happen is that it throws off the swarm of students. One of them jukes around him, leaving whoever it is behind to run smackdab into 210 pounds of solid Bruce Wayne. The student lands with an  _umph!_  right on his backside. It looks like it hurt, but that might be exaggerated by the way his books go flying. A water bottle too. To make things worse, a TI-68 spews out the side pocket of his backpack and skitters across the pavement. It's already being trampled on.

"Are you alright?" Bruce hurries to ask, already kneeled as if to shield them both from the crowd.

"Yeah," the boy mutters with a wince. He pulls up one of his hands and notes the small debris embedded in his palm. It's bleeding slightly. "Don't worry about it. Happens here more often than you'd think."

Bruce doesn't have the right words to reply, just sets into a pattern of helping him recollect his textbooks. They all look pretty advanced, mostly computer science classes.

"Here." Bruce places the calculator on top of his pile. (A kinder student had kicked it in their direction earlier.) The gesture doesn't do much to hide the fact the screen's cracked clean through. "I can pay for that," Bruce offers lamely, helping the boy to a stand.

"Nah, it's fine," the teen sighs. "My dad can help me out, so don't sweat it, Mr…" It's at this point the student's eyes drift up for the first time. They're a bright kind of blue that Bruce would like more time to appreciate but can't, as they instantly blow wide like the teen's been struck across the back of the head. His mouth falls open a bit as well, and the freshly-collected school supplies fall back to the ground with a clatter.

Bruce isn't sure how to respond. The teen keeps looking him up and down in absolute shock—maybe even horror—and yes, Bruce Wayne is a celebrity but only a financial one; he shouldn't elicit this kind of response from anyone under the age of thirty.

"You're… You're…"

"Bruce Wayne?" the man recommends good-naturedly, proffering a hand.

The teen's gaze follows to the appendage, still dumbfounded, but that new perspective allows the boy to notice all his books strewn (once again) across the pavement. He yelps in some way that conveys embarrassment, shoots back down to recollect them, remembers he didn't shake Bruce's hand yet, rockets back up, and well… Overall, Bruce is flattered by the absolute starstruck-ness.

After a few more movements in which the student expresses both profuse apology and gratitude, the two continue recanvassing the lost items. The crowd of students has thinned, but the boy continues to keep his head down protectively, like he's trying to shroud his face with black bangs. That only makes Bruce more curious. He seems oddly familiar.

"Bjarne Stroustrup," Bruce prompts innocently, gesturing to one of the C++ coding books. "Smart man."

The boy's skin gets redder somehow, and he sheepishly scurries to scoop the book to his chest. "Y—yeah, he's cool." His eyes remain stubbornly pinned downward, even after they've recollected everything and come back to a stand. "Um, thanks for your help."

"Of course," Bruce says, tilting his head to the side in attempt to get a better look at the student's face. (The more they talk, the more familiar he really appears…) The teen still can't seem to look him in the eye, though. "I was the one who got in the way, after all," Bruce tries. "It'd be wrong of me to run off, although I still think I should pay for your calculator. I don't have much money on me, but if I had your name or mailing address…"

The boy shuffles a bit before glancing up momentarily. It's like getting shot with how familiar his face strikes Bruce, like he's seen the teen in passing everyday but is only just now noticing him. The blue eyes quickly flit down again. He murmurs his name smally.

"Sorry?"

"Tim…" the boy repeats, only a fraction louder. "My name's Tim Drake."

That rings a bell. "Jack Drake's son?"

Tim nods silently, vetting his converse like it's a life calling.

"Well, that certainly explains things," Bruce comments. "I thought I recognized you. You've certainly gotten taller since I saw you last." He pats the boy's shoulder amicably. The touch sends a strange pang through Bruce's chest, though, something like nostalgia and regret rolled into one, like finding something he didn't know he'd lost. He regretfully pulls his hand away.

"How's your father been doing?"

"He's alright. Back on his feet nowadays after the incident in Haiti. Got remarried, too."

Bruce nods conversationally, still distracted by the person in front of him. Tim's attention has moved from his feet to someplace over Bruce's shoulder—anywhere that doesn't involve direct eye contact, but that new direction allows Bruce to better survey his face. He can see a bit of Jack Drake in him around his eyes. Everything else about him from his jaw to his nose is his mother's. Bruce has a fleeting hope he can see him again when he's older, just to know how the features combine on an adult face, if life treats him well in the long run. He seems like a clever kid.

"Um… Speaking of my dad, I should probably get going."

"Right," Bruce agrees, fast if not reluctant. "He's probably wondering where you are."

"Yeah…" Tim quietly slips past him, books still clutched to his chest. The teen says a polite, "It was nice seeing you again," before he's vanished out the gate. Bruce rotates to watch him go, that pang in his chest shifting from nostalgia to heartache, and suddenly, he wishes he had any reason in the world to call him back. He doesn't, though. All he has are the whispering rumors of the trees behind him, like the world is keeping some grave secret from the both of them.

Time must pass Bruce by, as the courtyard is largely empty the next time he thinks to look. The Batman part of him is surprised (He never loses himself so completely to thought.), and he shakes his head to clear the haze.

"Not getting fleas, I hope."

Bruce turns at the sound.

"Alfred'll have a fit." Jason flashes a cheeky grin. It still contains the boyish charm he's always had, but it manifests itself as a devil-may-care handsomeness on his seventeen-year-old features.

"Good to see you too," Bruce dodges flatly, more like Batman than Bruce Wayne now. "How were classes?"

"Alright. Got into a discussion with my British Lit teacher about  _Great Expectations_. 's why I'm so late getting out, although I guess we never did promise to meet up."

"It's fine. Never let it be said you don't care about your education." Jason snorts at that, and Bruce is quick to follow the teen's lead as they stroll out the gate side by side. The air's still thinned from the rain earlier, and a few pedestrians are out window shopping. Jason makes a rebellious point to step in a puddle. "Can't believe you're almost done with school, though," Bruce observes with a faint smile. "A senior already."

Jason waggles a finger correctively. "Still have a few weeks left 'til then, old man. It's still April."

"Hardly. It's the 27th."

"Four days is still four days." Jason shoots him a smart smirk as he adjusts the straps of his bookbag. It's the look he gets when he's planning on stirring up trouble. Bruce can already feel the headache. The man doesn't have the energy to be troubled by two things at once. He's still bothered by his meeting from earlier, and he can't stop thinking about it.

"Jason?"

"Yeah?" the teen's attention piques, focusing on Bruce with boyish innocence caught in his pupils. It's expressions like that that remind Bruce how close he came to losing him two years ago, remind him he'd give his life for his son in a heartbeat. Bruce is so grateful he was spared the pain of living without him.

"It's a great name, isn't it?"

Bruce's eyebrows furrow in confusion.

" _Jason_ ," the selfsame teen repeats. "I love saying it too. Just for the heck of it."

Bruce stifles an eyeroll and settles for a patient inhale instead. "I was going to ask if you knew a Tim Drake at your school."

"Tim Drake," Jason echoes, letting the name roll off his tongue. Bruce witnesses the teen shift gears, go from rebel-at-seventeen to Gotham City High School student body president. It's an amusing change if not a drastic one. "He's a freshman, right?" Jason tries before bobbing his head decisively. "Yeah, I've heard of him. Hangs with the geek crowd. He and his buddies run a mean campaign of  _Warlocks and Warriors_ , I've been told."

Bruce doesn't bother asking what that's supposed to mean, just moves on. "Nothing else? You're certain?"

Jason looks thoughtful for a moment. "Don't think so," he frowns, sidestepping a fellow pedestrian. "Kid's not the type to join up with the cowardly lot of Gotham, if that's what you're asking."

Bruce waves his hand dismissively. "No… No, I was just curious."

"Whatever you say, B," Jason shrugs lightheartedly. The teen continues chatting, covering small things like tests and intel he caught in the halls that may transfer into drug busts during the nighttime. Bruce could listen to him talk for hours. (There was a time, once, where he was certain he'd never get another chance to.) Today, however, Bruce can't seem to focus. His mind is wandering again, lost to the occasional pass of a car or a gust of wind.

It's a few minutes later that Bruce catches sight of something across the street. It's something obvious like a light reflecting in his eye, only it's no light. Just a teen surrounded by two friends. The group is talking harmlessly on the sidewalk, smiling with an occasional laugh. One of them catches sight of Bruce then too. The teen's face falls slightly, blue irises swimming with some emotion, cloudy and sad. Bruce imagines his own expression looks very much the same.

A car passes by in the next instant, cuts off the contact as if symbolic. It feels like it lasts an eternity—maybe a lifetime—in which things might've been different. Might've been meant to be but aren't. Bruce can feel the potential in that shared moment and wonders what life would've been like if things hadn't been this way. Something in the air says he can't know but mourns the loss anyway. Bruce wonders if Tim can feel it too.

It doesn't matter in the end.

By the time the car's finished passing, they've both looked away.


End file.
